“He was returning home to his father’s farm, where he hoped to settle to a more peaceful life. He was an archer, skilled and strong. He still carried his bow, but the quiver on his back only held one arrow, a souvenir of the life he was leaving behind. It was fletched with his favourite feathers, silvery grey feathers that made the arrow fly true. He was nearing his home, walking softly along the country lane, when he heard singing. Not the loud chanting of an army singing to terrify the enemy o...r to cover up the fear in their own hearts, but a cheerful melody in a light high voice, singing a counting song about flowers. He looked over the wall into the nearest field and saw a little girl sitting in the middle of a meadow, her head bent over a daisy chain as she sang her song. The archer smiled. A world which contained daisies and singing children: this was why he was coming home. Then he saw a dark shadow creeping through the grass and flowers. A low, long, hairy shadow, creeping towards the girl.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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